The Triangle
by icefire-lioness
Summary: Written for a challenge on SAYS. Set around the match between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor when Cedric Diggory catches the snitch. Oliver/Cedric, unrequited Harry/Oliver.


_AN: Written for a challenge on SAYS (Lyn's love triangle challenge). Hope you enjoy!_

-

They said he was drowning himself in the shower. Oliver didn't think that it was actually, physically possible, but he thought he should check, just in case. Who knows? Maybe he would win a prize or something. First wizard to figure out secret to drowning in shower. Not the point.

The point was…the point was…

Actually, he didn't want to think what the point was. Or why he was attempting to drown himself in the shower. They were one and the same, anyway. So it didn't matter. Think of something else.

"Oliver, Oliver…are you…can I…Oliver?"

Oh, fantastic. The great Diggory himself.

Oliver stayed silent, but knew the rush of water would give him away. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered but that they had lost, and to _Hufflepuff_ of all people. It was…no. Not thinking about it.

"Oliver?"

That voice, that _cursed_ voice, floats around the bathroom, waiting for a reply. He doesn't. Reply, that is. He couldn't even if he had wanted to. Not that he does.

"Oliv-oh. Hi."

Diggory stands awkwardly outside the shower cubicle, his Quidditch robes still on, his hair messy, muddy. He looks anxious at the sight of Oliver standing in the shower, which has gone cold, his face blank, mud streaks still clinging stubbornly to his face. Oliver turns away and stares at the wall.

"I wanted to talk to you about the…about the match," Cedric says uneasily.

Oliver starts counting the tiles, his fingers running over the flecks of mould in the spaces between. Cedric presses on, stubborn and persistent. Just like a Hufflepuff, thinks Oliver viciously, never knows when to give up. Not even when it's obvious they should.

"I don't think it was fair," says Cedric quietly.

Oliver's back stiffens, but he keeps counting the tiles. Seven, eight, nine…

"We shouldn't have won like that."

No, you shouldn't have won! _We_ should have won!

"And I wanted to propose a rematch."

Oliver's lip curls and he turns to glare at Cedric.

"A rematch? You're out of your bloody mind."

Cedric looks angry, the first time Oliver has ever seen him so.

"We didn't win fairly – it wasn't fair!"

Oliver turns away again.

"Oh, go shove your bloody Hufflepuff 'fair', Diggory. I don't want to hear it."

"This isn't about _you_, Wood!" Cedric cries. Oliver ignores him. Ten, eleven, twelve…

He hears Cedric taking a deep breath; calming himself, presumably.

"A rematch, Oliver. That's all I'm asking."

Oliver leans his head against the cold tiles, trying to rid himself of the heavy, slow headache which he feels building up in the back his forehead. Pressure pain.

He says his next words in a very pleasant voice, his eyes closed.

"Gryffindors do not accept pity games, Hufflepuff. Sod. Off."

Something in Cedric snaps and he pushes himself into the cubicle – shoes, robes and all – to stand under the rush of cold water, his eyes blazing. Oliver turns and he is there, his hair wet, his face hard. Cedric pushes him up against the tiles. Oliver thinks, in a remote way, that he has grown stronger. He doesn't push the other boy away. He can't be bothered.

"Like I said, Wood, this isn't about you. Hufflepuff, yeah? You know what they'll say about this match, don't you? We _need_ to win fairly, Oliver. If we don't, it's like we never won at all. We need it. Everyone says it was because of those things –"

"Dementors."

"Whatever. And it has nothing to do with skill on our part, and I won't _let _that happen to us. We're good, Oliver, we are, and I can't have my team – my _house_ – lacking belief in themselves because we couldn't play a fair match. We'll play a rematch, and we'll win. Fairly. And then we will show you what skill is. Oliver, this is important. It's important. It's Quidditch, Oliver. You know how important it is, you know why –"

Oliver watches the other boy; he is frustrated and angry, and all he wants is for Cedric to stop holding him under the cold water, pressed against those freezing tiles, and just let him go, let him drown himself, let him…not have to listen to his talk of fairness and skill. It was too Hufflepuff, too…everything. All he wanted was peace.

"No rematch," he says stubbornly, and Cedric pushes him harder against the wall.

"Not scared, are you?" he jibes, pushing those fatal buttons. Oliver hears them, knows them, doesn't care.

"If we play a rematch, it'll look like we're sore losers," Oliver explains, aggravated.

A trickle of water is caught in Cedric's Cupid's bow, and Oliver can't tear his eyes away from it. It shimmers as it clings tightly; threatening to fall with every word Cedric speaks, but never holding up to its promise.

"Well, tell them what I said!" Cedric exclaims, running a hand through his matted hair. The drop of water gleams, taunting Oliver.

"You know it isn't that easy," Oliver says, closing his eyes tiredly.

"Make it easy!" Cedric cries, not taking his eyes off Oliver.

Oliver opens his eyes again, realising how strange the situation is. Cedric's Quidditch robes are completely sodden, and where they are not too heavy, they cling to him. His hair has turned to copper with the weight of the water, and his blue eyes are flashing at the other boy. Oliver is completely naked, and shivering.

He pushes at Cedric a little, trying to move him. Cedric pushes back, and quickly it disintegrates into a fight, both boys putting in all their anger and frustration, their misery, their hurt. When they pull apart again, both panting and even wetter still, they glare at each other.

Oliver's eyes are drawn back to Cedric's mouth. The drop of water; different or the same, he isn't sure; still rests there, teasing, taunting. Without thinking, he leans forward and catches it in his mouth. It is salty; sweat and water.

Cedric stares at him. His tongue flicks out, once, running over the same spot. Oliver watches him, transfixed. He doesn't know why he did what he did, but he had, and now he wanted something else. He wasn't thinking about Quidditch anymore; everything but the boy standing in front of him had been pushed from his mind.

And then, without speaking, without anything but perhaps some animal instinct which does not need words, they moved together at the same moment, and then there was nothing but that delightful something which doesn't let anything else interrupt.

-

Harry doesn't know why, but he can't stop thinking about Oliver. Weeks and weeks of daydreams and scribbles – _Oliver Wood_;_ Oliver_;_ Wood_; _Love_; _Mine_; _Lover_ – and he isn't sure what it means, he doesn't know what is going on in his head, but he can't think of anything else. Practice sessions become something else – a time to watch rather than to play. He gets caught up in that headspace, he can't concentrate. Oliver shouts 'head in the game!' and he tries, for a while, just for him, but he can't. Soon he'll be distracted by sunlight on Oliver's hair and he'll drift aimlessly, daydreaming, until George sends a bludger his way.

After the match against Hufflepuff – the match he _lost_ – Harry finds his thoughts constantly returning to his captain, and he doesn't know how to stop them. He sits in the Hospital Wing contemplating what he would say if he had the courage to tell Oliver what he feels. But he has seen the way Oliver looks at that other boy – Diggory, how he _hates_ Diggory – and even though he isn't sure that Oliver knows what he feels, Harry does. Harry knows the look, because it is one that he sees in the mirror. Oliver is in love with Cedric Diggory, and there is nothing Harry can do about it.

Before the match, even, he hasn't eaten in days. Love does something to his stomach; takes whatever is usually there and replaces it with snakes, or butterflies, or something that jumps. He is too sick and faint to eat, can't even stand to look at anything but what he needs so desperately – him, his love – he can't look at food, can't look at school work, can't look at friends. He can only look at his love, and the person who wants to take him away. Rival. Enemy. Diggory.

And now, in the Hospital wing, he still doesn't eat, still can't think of anything much besides Oliver and Cedric and the Grim who haunts his dreams. The screams of his mother, fished up from the depths of his memory by the horrors on the pitch, mingle with dreams of conversations that he has with Oliver. They are all backwards and jumbled, and Oliver will be saying something to Harry about his feelings, and then he will be standing in the Quidditch change rooms, lecturing him on a play that he needs to learn. Then the scenes will shift, and Oliver will turn into Cedric, who will point and say 'it's too late for you, Potter, I already have him' and then Cedric will turn into Voldemort and his pointed finger is a pointed wand. Then a green flash, high pitched laughter, screaming, and Harry will wake up in a cold sweat, wishing that he could take something to stop the dreams.

-

Early one morning, before Ron or Hermione have come to keep Harry company, Harry receives an unsolicited and unwelcome guest.

"Hey, Potter," Cedric says, standing at the end of the other boy's bed. His hand moves up to his hair anxiously, and he pushes it out of his eyes. Harry glares at him.

"What are you doing here?"

It isn't just the fact that Cedric Diggory has taken Oliver – or will, or can, or does, Harry isn't sure anymore – it's that he ruined Oliver's faith in his skill by stealing the snitch. And he hadn't even won it _fairly_.

"I came to talk to you," says Cedric, and he looks slightly taken aback at the venom in Harry's voice.

"Oh?" says Harry, and his voice is biting. Cedric sits down uninvited.

"Yes. I wanted to talk to you about the match."

Harry narrows his eyes at the other boy.

"I've already…talked to Oliver about it." Cedric says, and his voice is almost wistful. Harry watches him suspiciously. Something has happened between them. He can feel it in the pit of his stomach, a curling and deadening of his insides.

"Oh?" Harry repeats, and Cedric looks back at him.

"He won't have a rematch, but I wanted to apologise anyway. If I had seen the Dementors and what had happened to you…" he trails off and then shrugs.

"The point is, I'm really sorry about the way it happened. It was bloody awful. Friends, yeah?" he puts out a hand for Harry to take, his face clear again.

Harry glares at him, his hands staying stubbornly on top of the sheets. Cedric makes a small, embarrassed noise and retracts his hand. Harry is silent, just staring at him.

"Why don't you like me?" Cedric asks in a small voice, the childish phrase falling from his mouth, apparently without forethought. Harry almost laughs.

"Why don't I like you? Diggory, you've ruined _everything_."

Cedric looks confused. "What do you mean?"

"You took the person I love," Harry says, sniffing angrily. Cedric looks even more perplexed.

"Harry, you're thirteen. Who could you love that I took? I'm not even with…" a light dawns, and he says softly "Oliver?"

Harry nods curtly and looks at the wall. There is a moment of silence while both boys contemplate Harry's confession. Eventually Harry looks back at Cedric, all the hurt and confusion he has been bottling up for weeks bubbling to the surface.

"And it isn't just that! You take _everything_ from me!" Harry cries, glaring at Cedric.

"What? Like what?" Cedric asks, wondering whether he should be angry, or to pity the younger boy. He's so young – first love is hard.

"You took the snitch-" Harry says, choking a little on the words. His green eyes are watering slightly and he looks away, humiliated to be seen almost crying in front of his rival. Cedric either doesn't see, or chooses not to comment.

"We've talked about that." he says softly. Harry shakes his head as if dislodging a small fly.

"You took Cho-" he says heatedly. Cedric raises an eyebrow uncertainly.

"Cho? Cho Chang? What?"

Harry shakes his head again. "Well, you will take her one day. Saw it in divination. That isn't the point."

Cedric throws his hands up in the air. "You want Cho? Have her. I don't want Cho."

Harry looks frustrated. "Neither do I! I'm just making a point! I want Oliver, Diggory – and you took him from me."

"No," Cedric corrects him, "_You_ want to take him from _me_. I had him first."

"He isn't just a possession!"

Cedric is calm and cool, while Harry burns with anger and confusion. "No, no he isn't. So stop acting as though he is. Love isn't a game, Potter. This isn't Quidditch."

Harry pulls a hand through his hair in frustration. "See, and that's why you don't deserve him. Oliver would say it _was_."

Cedric shakes his head in disappointment.

"You're being irrational and immature. I'm leaving now, Harry, and I think you should think about what you've said. It isn't rational."

He stands up, turning for the door. Harry mutters his parting shot, feeling hurt. "Whatever _mum_," he mutters, and Cedric, hearing it, shakes his head again, and leaves the Hospital Wing without another word.

-

An hour later there is another visitor, and Harry isn't sure whether he is happy about it or not. Oliver stands in the doorway, and although he looks tired, Harry can see a faint smile on his face. His stomach flips at the sight of his captain, and he can't tell whether it is anticipation, or worry, or just the fact that he is still hurt by his conversation with Cedric Diggory.

Oliver sits in a chair at Harry's bedside, fidgeting with his robes. Harry watches him, feeling a sinking in his stomach. There is no way Oliver will want him. Now that he has Cedric. Harry is young, and nowhere near as handsome as Cedric, and anyway, he doesn't know anything about what a lover would want. He looks down at his feet, poking out of the sheets at the end of the bed, and feels himself turn hot with shame. That he could even _entertain_ the idea that Oliver might want him!

"How are you feeling, Harry? A bit better?"

Oliver seems happy, anyway. Isn't that what people in love want? That the object of their affections is happy? Isn't that all? Harry stares at his feet.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I didn't really...hurt myself anyway."

Not physically, anyway.

"That's good. I was wondering-"

"IthinkI'minlovewithyou," Harry interrupts in one breath and then turns away, focussing on a crack in the wall and cursing himself for having to _say_ things all the time. When he looks back, Oliver has a bemused expression on his face, but he's still smiling. Laughing at me, thinks Harry, wishing that he could sink into the bed. He looks away again, his face burning with humiliation.

"Harry…I don't think you do." Oliver says softly, and he puts a hand on Harry's arm. Harry turns back to the other boy, anger at this dismissal of his feelings rising up in him.

"I do, I do!" he says heatedly, childishly, immediately wishing he could stuff the words back into his mouth. Oliver looks pitying, and Harry hates it.

"Harry, you're thirteen, it's not…"

What? Possible? Rational? Of course it isn't. But love isn't any of that anyway. Oliver is silent again.

"I'm sorry," Oliver apologises, looking truly unhappy. Harry turns away.

"I'm already…"

"With Diggory. I know." says Harry sadly, and he feels that maybe, maybe, his heart won't break, it will just feel hollow for a while, until someone puts the filling back in.

Oliver leans over and hugs Harry to him, and after stiffening for a moment, Harry relaxes into the other boy and lets him put his lips to his forehead.

"You're a great person, Harry," Oliver says softly, and Harry tries not to cry at the tone of voice Oliver says it in – as though he really wants to love Harry, but knows he can't.

"You'll have so much. Later. I'm sorry I can't give you what you want now."

Harry puts his arms around Oliver, wanting to feel him this close at least once before he leaves. There's the sound of a door opening, and footsteps, then they halt. Harry looks up.

Cedric. At the door. Oliver turns, pulling himself from Harry's arms.

His eyes are chips of ice. He turns in the doorway, blazing anger. Turns back.

"I can't believe-" he says softly, and then shakes his head minutely, as if to tell himself to be quiet. Oliver watches him, feeling sour bile rise up in his throat. This isn't what he wanted.

"Cedric-"

"You're not…you're not…what I thought."

And then the door closes, and Oliver is left to stare at the wooden barrier, reliving the one moment over and over again, Harry's apologies so faint that they can hardly be heard. Oliver sinks to the floor, his head in his hands, blocking out the sound of Harry Potter, trying to fix something with words that cannot be fixed.

-

They come in the morning, six in Gryffindor robes, making Madame Pomfrey scowl.

"How are you, mate?" Fred asks, grinning as he puts a hand on Harry's shoulder. Harry grimaces as he sees Oliver walk into the room behind the others, his eyes bruised with shadows.

"Fine," Harry replies quietly. He looks away. Fred gestures at Oliver, who comes over slowly and stands next to his bed, twisting his hands in his robes.

"It wasn't your fault, Harry," says Oliver in a hollow voice, and Harry lowers his eyes. "I don't blame you in the slightest."

And even though his teammates think Oliver is talking about the match, Harry knows what Oliver is really trying to say. And he can't feel anything but regret for his captain's lost happiness, and he resolves that, no matter what his feelings, as soon as he gets out of the hospital wing, he will find Cedric, and tell him to take Oliver back. Because he might love Oliver, but Oliver loves Cedric, and he needs to be happy.


End file.
